[Otherworld, New Camelot] The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter

Guinevere smirked as Mordred figured out her plan. As simple as he was, he had proven time and again that there was indeed something present in that thick skull. Her knowing smile said more than she could have in words. And even as he knew what she was plotting, Guinevere could still relish in the feeling that the cards were still in her hands. Mordred's clear frustration only added to it. That nasty curse still weighed heavy on his head. Oh how splendid would it be to destroy what he held so dear. Alas, it wasn't how the Dark One operated. Not entirely.

But before she could flick her wrist, releasing that lot from their affliction, a chill emanated in the premises. The moist cavernous smell and feeling turned into a dry cold. In her dilapidated heart, she knew the cause. An unpleasant memory suddenly making itself known in a moment most joyous. It was how he functioned.

Guinevere watched the heart flee from her and in that instant, she almost teetered over the edge. Almost lost the glee and macabre whimsy she had enjoyed during this quest. Her primal darkness yearned to be released. Yet, reason proved its mettle. All this happened in a millisecond, during which Guinevere turned towards their newest guest. Her expression changed startingly to one which spoke nothing of what was bubbling inside. Head cocked to one side, eyes widened to display her striking irises, mouth contorting little to remain neutral. Like a curious animal, but perfectly part of her visage.

Then, the Dark One morphed her lips to form a beaming smile, while every other facet of her remained in place. An eerie display of the Darkness' embodiment. A smile that hid the frustration and most importantly, boundless rage of a being who was no longer the most powerful or old in the room. Not to mention her greatest aim being snatched from her grasp like...

She preferred to not finish that thought.

"You should know better than to meddle in my affairs, Crucible."

Her expression changed not even once. Yet the vitriol in her tone was telling, as much as it was masked by her more raspy timbre. She rolled the "r" like her life depended on it when uttering his title. They knew each other and had for a while.

When Guinevere inherited the Darkness, the vacant seat at the Round Table revealed its true nature to her. Or rather, inklings of it. What was before assumed to be a superstition, was now plain fact. She could feel its presence, becoming suffocating whenever she was near it. A power she knew of but couldn't obtain or quell. The Darkness bestowed her with many gifts, yet knowing of this endless possible foe was... not ideal. So she shed it from her memory until the Dark One truly came to be.

After her emergence as the Dark One, she and the Crucible crossed paths more than once. Always in situations where his unknowable nature clashed with her unpredictable mind. Neither could truly defeat the other though Guinevere knew that if push came to shove, the Crucible would likely come out on top. That made him a mortal enemy. One she was determined to always keep an eye on, in case a weakness presents itself. As permanent as the Crucible may have been, the Darkness was that just as much and it did not enjoy competition.

"Now be a dear and kindly return what is mine. I would much prefer to not make a mess."

It was as if she ignored his initial statement, still referring to the heart and those goals as something she did indeed earn. What additionally permeated the air was the question that was on both Mordred's and Guinevere's minds, but one that Guinevere knew was pointless to ask. Rarely did anyone know what the Crucible actually wanted or why he appeared in a particular place. The Dark One, however, knew him well enough that he always had a reason. She did not know what it was yet. However, despite his lyrical manner of speaking being feigned as profound poetry, his words often carried a decipherable meaning if one knew how to interpret them.

Guinevere remained in place, her eyes not leaving the Crucible's not even for a second. She did not want him here, for he was stunningly insufferable. Some would call that thought of hers ironic. Yet she wouldn't also decline an opportunity to "catch up" with someone on her level. Beings like him, in certain aspects, were rare. Like an exotic species to study for as long as one could keep an eye on them.

Rupert's brow furrowed at the entity's words, and he flinched slightly when his gaze went to him. He'd be a fool not to; truthfully, few men, however brave or foolish, would do otherwise. He was unsure if the last question was aimed at him or Guinevere. Maybe the truth was that it was aimed at both. His presence was enough to make the wound on his chest burn, reminding him of a past life...

"Mine, Sir," his voice was slow and measured; he had little reason to lie, and part of him had a feeling The Crucible knew anyway, only asking as a curtsy. Still, he had never been one to back down, and the only reason he was here was because of duress; for all intents and purposes, he had been blackmailed, with the knife still resting against the neck of those who mattered more than he did. If The Crucible found that Guinevere had not earned the ember from the well, that was not his problem.

"I fulfelled my end of the deal, now ef you excuse me." He politely bowed to the knight before walking towards the cage with Meggan. "Release her, Lady Guinevere, and end your curse..." He continued without looking at his stepmother. He did not want to participate in any further of this magical nonsense until he knew they were all safely out of her spell. Sir Crucible was here for a reason, and he did not want to put Meggan in further danger if he could help it. Two entities of this scale? He was not one to take chances.

At least, the part of him that was Rupert was not going too.

The Crucible neither welcomed nor rejected Guinevere's advances. These demonstrations at parley made no difference to him. Doubtless the Dark One was not only aware of this, but cared as little as he did. Theatrics indeed. There were times where he may well have endured these contrivances. That time was not here.

"That you know not my purpose here proclaims your ignorance, schemer. You fail to recognize what is coming to pass before your very eyes." The Crucible stared right through Guinevere - past her, at Mordred, who so deigned to speak. The Crucible's form shimmered for a moment. He walked past Guinevere, emphasizing his focus on the boy. When the shimmering effect ended, the heart was no longer anywhere to be seen. "Yours? Pray tell, to whom does this choice belong?" He reached an arm back, gesturing at Guinevere, almost disdainfully. "Hers?"

The Crucible continued to advance. With each step, his voice grew louder, increasingly filled with arcane power. The Captains Britain? That weakness you call Rupert Oleander?"

He finally came to a halt several paces from the lad, before raising his sword arm to point at Mordred, practically daring him. "Or to you?

Guinevere's frustration started to beckon. Crucible was here indeed for a reason and truthfully, she had a mighty good guess as to what it was. His words were comprised an obvious threat. Made even more obvious as his attention shifted to Mordred and the heart disappeared. A noise resembling a grunt or a growl escaped the witch. If he had done away with it, there would be hell to pay. Yet, she didn't think he was that foolish. A powerful artifact like that, made fresh with such potent magic was a tool for more than just resurrection. For the time being, it was an acceptable sacrifice for this unexpected bonus event.

She kept the Crucible's words in the back of her mind for now, as something much more pertinent caught her attention.

Mordred unveiling Clarent was truly a gateway to the past. She knew of the blade. Arthur had shown it to her, told her of its importance. Ironic that it meant slaying the very king who possessed it.

"Ah, so you do still have it."

Guinevere took in the intricate design and the effortless magic as it broke the confines of the blonde fae. Meggan gasped as she was free from her prison, grabbing onto Mordred's sleeve tight. Her fear was immense, yet there was clear determination in her to get out of this situation. She transformed into a mixture of a fluffy creature, with spikes protruding from various places. A visible sign of her distress. She hadn't seen Rupert angry like this, not truly. So she knew it was Mordred taking hold.

The Dark One took equal notice of this, a beaming smile adorning her scaled face. She got that delectable reaction, at last. In effortless steps that made it seem like she was gliding, Guinevere came to a stop right next to the Crucible. She let her hands float over his armor, very close to touching him. It felt almost whimsical, a curious examination. But her gaze and smile left Mordred for only a moment. Guinevere was like a child at a candy store, she couldn't immediately decide who to address first, who to submit to her cunning. But Clarent proved far too irresistible.

"There it is! Doesn't that simply feel irresistible? Feeling your innate shade burst forth!"

Turning to Mordred, her expression didn't change. Extending an open palm towards him, in a small puff of smoke, a blade appeared in her own hand. Intricate in design, unmistakable in reputation. Carnwennan, a dagger that once belonged to Arthur, was now the Dark One's totem so to speak. She touched Clarent's blade from both sides, playfully knocking on it with Carnwennan like the other blade was a toy. Unnatural chimes could be heard as the two blades met, making it certain that both blades were enchanted and suitable opponents. Alas, that wasn't Guinevere's intention... yet.

"By your father's name? The father you gleefully struck down? Calling his name will yield you nothing. Two can play at this game, child. I can reclaim what I've lost. You, however? That is another tale."


Mentioning Arthur summoned a heartfelt laugh of mockery from the Dark One. This boy... full of wonders. Her smile changed ever so slightly. It was always wicked, yet this time, it resembled something more of what Mordred and Meggan had witnessed in the grove.

Meggan clutching Mordred was of little help when she was whisked away into Guinevere's grasp. The woman was subdued swiftly, Guinevere placing her dagger dangerously close to the fae's neck, looking down on it, taking a deep breath in and letting it travel across the neck and blade. Almost as a sigh of relief and annoyance.

"What a delicate thing she is. How she tried to beg and convince me, with that fire in her voice. Determined, hopeful, pitiful like the rest of you. But one tiny slice and this whole dynasty crumbles to nothing."

A blade to one's throat was old-fashioned, but Guinevere wasn't going to deny these indulgences when they came about. Besides, it made for a thrilling tragedy. She wasn't going to do anything yet. Meggan was a means to an end. Something the Crucible was frustratingly in the way of. Time to see if her gamble would pay off.

"Do you truly know who this is, Mordred? Do you know what he intends to invoke? Yes, my gilded knight, I know of your rites. Thine awesome power you flail around verily andwhathaveyou."

Her words skipped between the two men as she addressed them both in key moments. At the end, she did a purposefully poor impression of the Crucible, before whisking the sentence away in a quick manner.

"So do it! Take Mordred as my champion. Should he prove his mettle, he and his compatriots will be free from this dreadfully inconvenient curse and you will get to prove a point! Oh, and lest I forget - I get my heart back. Or I simply kill them both and you will be left with nothing. Choose wisely, sire."

The Dark One's tone returned to its typical raspy, breathy origin. She meant business. Did Guinevere know exactly what the Crucible wanted with Mordred? No. His ways were infuriatingly unknowable, yet she knew that as complex as he was, his meanings could be interpreted in a simple manner. Almost instinctual, one could say. It was something Guinevere could easily tap into, when others couldn't.

Rupert could only observe as events took place. He could not stop the dark one from taking Meggan, and perhaps he would have done something stupid if not for the intervention of The Crucible. He was an impossible one to read, but as he stepped in to halt Guinevere, Rupert felt calm. He lowered the sword, eyes focused on the Dark One momentarily before they moved to Meggan. He gave her a sad but honest smile. "It'll be fine." He said.

Once that was done, Rupert slowly turned to face the Crucible. To call him the old knight would not be wrong; he was one of the oldest. Old as time, if not older, he was terrible to behold, but still a knight, radiant and honest, all representing all the things that made the Knights of Old powerful. At that moment, Guinevere was not significant; none of the events around him was as important as this. His grip around the blade tightened slightly, feeling Clarent, familiar, and alien. The cursed blade longed for combat, and Rupert could feel how much it wanted to cross blades with a worthy foe...

"I accept, Sir," Rupert said; no other words needed to be spoken as he stepped forward.

He was tired of others making the choices for him: Guinevere, Morgan Le Fey, the woman he thought was his mother and the fathers he killed with his own hands. His eyes had no pride, no misguided bravado, just determination. It would be a lie to say that he was not afraid because he was, but fear would not stop him from being brave; if anything, it made him more courageous.

The golden eyes from within the Crucible's helm gleamed. There was no doubt that whatever lay beneath his armor was smiling. A rare occasion, indeed. This was itself a momentous thing. To think that it would come so soon... and had come so late. Once Mordred stepped forward, the clouds blew outward, forced apart by a blinding light that appeared betwixt the Crucible and Mordred. It was white, at first, then black, then purple, then a myriad of colors. They came apart like a mirror being shattered in all directions. These shards glimmered with impossible color, and as they flew outward, they implanted themselves upon the air, inexplicably locking themselves in place. This process continued until the surroundings of Guinevere's hideaway was completely covered in these arcane shards. Then, like the mirror from whence it came, the shards shimmered, and reflected a new image.





It was a field of golden petals and leaves. In the far distance was a lake, itself aglow not with gold, but silver. A black sun hung overhead, its eclipse most clearly marking the place this was inspired from: Camlann, before it all. Before the blood, before the fire, before the end. Standing at the far end of the field was the Crucible... in part. His own magic had transformed him to best match the stage. His armor was no longer black, nor gold. It was sterling silver, bereft of the Crucible's familiar dread, instead resplendent with an old light. That light gathered in the false sword that the giant of a man clasped in his hands... though even here, the Crucible could not completely capture the essence of the signature of Mordred's father. The macabre core of his Midnight blade "shined" forth, framed against the radiant edifice of a false Excalibur. So be it. Holding the blade close to his chest, the Crucible King began to march towards his opponent.